


In the Ice

by AMaskOnTwoFaces



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dark, Descent into Madness, Drowning, Existential Crisis, F/M, Fantasizing, Hallucinations, Insanity, Psychological Torture, Religious Crisis, Steve's Awake in the Ice, Torture, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMaskOnTwoFaces/pseuds/AMaskOnTwoFaces
Summary: Exactly what it says on the tin.  Steve’s perspective of those 70 years.





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I’d like to say this will update daily, but I feel that I’ll be jinxing myself into making that not happen if I say that, so I’ll just say that hopefully this will update very, very often.

It’s cold.  Very, very, _very_ cold.

That’s the first thought.

Steve blinks his eyes open and—

His eyes.  His _eyes_!  They won’t open!  His eyelids are stuck!

He opens his mouth to call for help, but—but that won’t open either!  And his fingers can’t twitch and his toes won’t move and his knees won’t bend and his chest won’t move to draw breath and—

Oh.

God.

He can’t—

He can’t _breathe_.

God!

Fuck!

Help!

He can’t _breathe_!

Please! He can’t—!

He _can’t_ —

He can’t…

 

 


	2. Awakening the Second

It’s cold.  Very, very, _very_ cold.

That’s the first thought.

Wait—

_God!_

Help!

He can’t breathe!

Help!

Please!

Dear God, please help!

_Please!_

He can’t breathe!

He can’t breathe!

He can’t breathe!

_He can’t breathe!_

 

 


	3. Awakening the Third

Cold.

But this time, he remembers that he’s stuck before he tries to move and breathe—

He can’t—

 _Don’t think about that_.

 _Don’t think about that_.

 _Don’t think about that_.

 _Don’t think about that_.

 _Don’t think about that_.

_Don’t think about—_

_Fuck._

Fucking shit on a shit stick!  Fucking—fucking fuckity fuck!

_Fuck!_

_He can’t fucking breathe!!!_

_He can’t—!_

 

 


	4. Over and Over

One.

Two—

God, he can’t—

Please. _Please_.

He can’t _breathe_.

Five.

_Shit._

SixSeven.

 _Eight_ — _Fuck!_

It hurts. It _burns_.

His lungs are screaming.  His _blood_ is screaming, right down to his very bones.

What does he have to do to get out of this?  How long will this torture last?

Is he even alive?  Is this just his death, relived—replayed—over and over, on an infinite loop, for the rest of forever?

God—is it the serum?  Is it impossible for him to die a true death, and he just keeps drowning here, in whatever sea he landed in, doomed to die? Over and over and over and over and over and over and over?

Overandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandover—

 

 


	5. Count

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

Thirteen.

Fourteen.

Fifteen.

Sixteen.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

Nineteen.

Twenty.

Twenty-one.

Twenty-two.

Twenty-three.

Twenty— _Fuck!_

_No!_

Air!

Please!

_Please!_

 

 


	6. Hail Mary

Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus

Sancta Maria, Mater Dei,

Ora pro nobis peccatoribus,

Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.

 

Ave Maria, gratia plena,

Dominus tecum.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus,

et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus

Sancta Maria,

Mater—

Mater Dei—

_Please—!_

_Please!_

_Pray for us sinners!_

Now and—

Now and at the hour of our death—

Now _— at the hour of my death!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not catholic, so I apologies for any inaccuracies that may exist in this Hail Mary prayer. I took this version from Wikipedia (minus all the accents they had on there for pronunciation). In English: “Hail Mary, full of grace/ the Lord is with thee/ Blessed art thou amongst women/ and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus/ Holy Mary, Mother of God/ pray for us sinners/ now and at the hour of our death. Amen.” If there was any mistake, please let me know; I prefer being as accurate as possible.


	7. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay: homework consumed me yesterday.
> 
> Also, this chapter is more reflective of the rest of this story, now that Steve is less panicky (for those of you that might have been worried about just how short the previous ones were).
> 
> Additionally, I have currently planned through chapter 24, and written through chapter 15. So I can say right now that I'll probably be able to post at least through 15 for you on this almost-daily schedule.
> 
> Enjoy!

If he can just focus on something long enough, perhaps he could ignore the pain.

Ignore the deep, chilling cold that cuts so deep it burns.  Ignore how it chokes him, has frozen solid inside his lungs, so that every flutter of his body’s attempt to breathe cuts him open, runs the inside of his lungs so ragged that they would no doubt be filled with blood if there was room for the blood to run.

His jaw clenches, biting his teeth into the ice that fills his mouth open wide.  He wants to gag with how it sits heavy in his throat, but knows that nothing will come from it, nothing but a stretch of twitching and choking and being reminded of his entrapment, of his powerlessness, over and over and over again.  He doesn’t wish to go through that ordeal once more, so he forces his body to squash the urge, the reflex to rebel against that which has invaded him so thoroughly that he is starting to lose track of what it was like to exist before the ice joined him.

If his tongue were warm enough to melt some of the ice into water, he would relish in its taste, but instead he is left only with the feeling of pins stabbed through it, the now-useless flesh in his mouth yet another point of agony amidst all the pains which envelope him so completely.

Had his boots had been solid enough to keep the water out, then he would at least have had the pleasure of wriggling his toes to keep him company, but even that space has been invaded, the contour of his shoes pushed so far from his feet that he has forgotten the feel of that supple leather.

His clothes were tight to his body, he knows, but it has come to the point where the minor abrasions against his skin could be the cotton or the ice or even both mended together, and yet he is unable to tell the difference between them anymore.  His entire body is rubbed raw, so completely surrounded, invaded by the ice, that there is nothing left but it and him.

 He wonders how long even he will continue to exist in its embrace, before he, too, is swallowed by its power.  He is so small, in the scheme of things, so unimportant when compared to this massive, ancient beast that embraces him, fills him.  _Is_ him.

 

 


	8. Prime

Seven.

Eleven.

Thirteen.

Seventeen.

Nineteen.

Twenty-three.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty-one.

Thirty-seven.

Forty-one.

Forty-three.

Forty-seven.

Forgets himself, goes to breathe, chokes, gags, cuts his lungs open anew.

Tries to gasp air in.  Chokes.  Gags.  Cuts his lungs.

He twitches, squirms, thrashes as much as he can in his icy bonds.  Tears open his lungs, his throat, his skin all over from where it cuts and rubs and pulls away pieces of him from where he and the ice are fused as one.

Tries to gasp in air in his panic.

Chokes.

Gags.

Cuts his lungs wide open.

 

 


	9. Date

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I meant to get another chapter posted before I left for my trip this weekend, in which I would have warned about the break in posting, but a teacher suddenly sprung a mid-term project on me instead. Because of that, posting over the next couple of days may be spotty as well.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy!

If it wasn’t for him driving the plane down, down into this icy grave in the depths of whatever sea he landed in, he would be going dancing with Peggy soon. 

Maybe they’d go in their dress uniforms, or maybe he’d get a snazzy new suit.  Pinstriped, now that he has the height and breadth and money for it.  Maybe she’d slip into a dress, fierce and powerful in her femininity.  Red probably, and an even brighter red painting her lips.

He’d take her to dinner, the best his money can buy, and she’d be gently amused by his fumbling attempts of following his role as the masculine party on the date, while never truly teasing him when he failed, instead just taking her own lead to cover his mistakes.

They’d go dancing, and she’d patiently show him the steps, all the while pretending that he’s leading for the sake of social norms, and he’d get halfway decent by the end of the night, hopefully not stepping on her toes in the process.  Or, knowing him, at least not too hard or too many times.

They’d share a drink, quietly laughing over something inane, then he’s walk her home.  And on her stoop, they’d share a kiss, slow and sweet, and when they’d break apart, she’d run her thumb over his lips and laugh at the lipstick smeared there.  He’d grin, but wouldn’t wipe it off, instead whistling to himself all the way to his own home, proudly sporting his badge of honor of dating Peggy Carter over his mouth.  He’d remember the ghost of her warmth pressed up against him from when they went dancing, letting the pleasant night carry him all the way through the next day, Bucky teasing him all the while about the stupid smile plastered on his face, but he wouldn’t care, because he, Steve Rogers, skinny little punk from Brooklyn, would have scored a night with the best dame in town, and—

Bucky’s dead.

He’d forgotten.

_He’d forgotten, God._

He chokes, trying to gasp in his despair.  Squashes the reflex back down before he enter that painful cycle from Hell again and end up dragged back under the blanket of unconsciousness.

But—but that date, that would be how it would happen.  Pinstripes and red. Bumbling through dinner with Peggy leading the dance.  A goodnight kiss slick with lipstick.  Being on cloud nine for days to come.

Maybe.

He chokes again.

 

 


	10. Cold

He knows, objectively, that he exists in a state of constant cold, but warm is not a concept he can remember or understand anymore.  The ice, instead, is the only thing that seems real.  The ice as it cradles him in its suffocating embrace, as it fuses itself to his skin, until he can no longer even question where he ends and it begins anymore.  Until all he knows is its all-encompassing grasp, the grinding, pulverizing grasp that this ancient beast holds him in.  He doubts the ice even notices his existence within it. 

He barely does anymore. 

He’s become a part of the ice.  She’s his mother, one who handles him with, a rough, uncaring touch, but never, _ever_ , lets him go.  He understands now, that this is where he exists now, and sometimes his mind tells him that there were others like him, that they still exist somewhere outside of the ice, but it seems impossible for there to be anything else besides the ice.

There is nothing but the ice.

He is its forgotten child, suffocating eternally as he lays bundled within its womb.

 It holds him in a death-grip, and holds him so tightly that not even death can reach him in its grasp.  No matter how he chokes and struggles, how much he trembles with the effort of holding his body still, how much he prays to a God so silent he fears the ice has swallowed his words before they could ever reach holy ears—just like the ice has swallowed him so completely—he can only accept his entrapment, accept that he is now held so possessively by this beast, his new mother; the ice.

There is nothing but the ice.

 

 


	11. Our Father

Pater noster, qui es in caelis,

sanctificetur nomen tuum,

adveniat regnum tuum,

fiat voluntas tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.

Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie;

et dimitte nobis debita nostra,

sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris;

et ne inducas nos in tentationem;

sed libera nos a Malo.

The words seem meaningless as he whispers them in his mind.  He thinks he used to fear that they held no power without him being able to utter them aloud.

He knows they don’t now.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I’m not Catholic, so I apologize for any inaccuracies regarding The Lord’s Prayer. Wikipedia told me that this is the Roman Missal Liturgical Latin version.


	12. Zola

It's Zola. It’s Zola who has him, Zola who’s rendered Steve’s body immobile, Zola who’s carving into his chest with a jagged knife; carving into his lungs to find the secret of Erskine's successful serum. Zola who’s figuring out just what to pump into Bucky to make him writhe and scream but never, never die. Just like Steve can never die, regardless of what tortures Zola puts him under, regardless of just how much his chest gets torn open, of how few ribbons of his lungs are still attached. 

He can't breathe.

He wants this torture to end, for Zola to figure it out and move on so Steve can heal, so he can breathe.  So he can taste sweet oxygen on his tongue and inhale it into his blood once more.  God, it feels as if his poor body is boiling from the lack of air.

But having his torture end will mean that Bucky will be Zola’s next subject, that Bucky will go through all this pain, too, and Steve can't stand the thought of that, can't stand the thought of Bucky taking on his pain instead, so he bears it, hopes it goes on forever and Zola will never get around to subjecting Buck to this torture. Steve can do this for Bucky.  He can bear this so Buck will never have to.

He tries to hold that thought in his mind as Zola stabs down again, ripping under another rib, making Steve's lungs even more useless as he digs around. 

It's _agony_. 

So pure and sweet Steve only wishes he could cry at its power. 

He’s so cold, too, as he lies there, bare and exposed to both the sharp air and Zola’s jagged knife, no difference between the burning slices as both carve their way through him.  All his heat is leaking out, being pulled from that cavity that once was his chest, pulsing out with every sluggish beat of his heart.

He feels like he’ll explode from not being able to scream, from not being able to release this pain from his body, but he thinks of Bucky, of Bucky having to go through these tortures, too, and Steve does his best to hold on, to keep his wits about him and _just hold on_.

He’s doing this for Bucky.

 

 


	13. Prayer

O Heavenly Father,

I’m losing faith; my faith in you, my faith in a life after death.

My faith that death is even a possible outcome.

Is there anything beyond where I am now?  Is there a plan in place for me?  Am I needed elsewhere?  Are you saving me, holding me for some other, grander purpose?

I don’t know how much help I could be at this rate.

My sanity is leaving me; I know this much.  I can no longer tell which way is the way of truth.  Was I ever someone beyond who I currently am?  Was there ever anything before where I am now?  I can no longer tell if I’m losing touch with what had existed before, or if I’m so far gone that this idea of before is something that I invented.

A sign might be nice.

I’ll just be here, eternally waiting… for anything, really.

For something to happen, something to _change_.

If you exist that is, and aren’t just another story invented by my mind to bear this place; this coffin.

I wish to have faith in you.

Please.

_Help me._

 

 

Amen.

 

 


	14. Shifting

At first, it appears to be another part of his mind, just another figment invented to occupy himself with as he ignores the burning in his lungs and the numb, irritating state of his frozen body’s forced stillness.

But.

There it was, again. 

And again.

A moan, so deep it resonates through him, belonging to a beast so immense he wants to shudder at the power emanating from the creature.  He fears whatever it could be that could bring harm to such a thing and make it cry so in pain.

Thunder, rumbling, reverberates through his prison.  More moans, with their frequency coming faster and more alarming now, and then a jolt, jerking him down and to the side, and he gurgles with the pain of the ice shifting inside him.

More shudders, then a sudden, fierce cry that sounds throughout his entire being, spearing him with the realization that it’s the ice, that’s the creature in pain, and now he’s truly afraid.  He’s only ever wanted out, wanted something to happen, but then what?  The ice has been his home for so long, and as much as he despises the pain it brings him, he’s terrified of what will happen if it lets him go.

Will he just float adrift, alone in the endless expanse of water for all of eternity?  As suffocating as the presence of the ice is, he can’t imagine being without its solidity anymore, can’t imagine being left without the hard press of it around him, inside and out, until he can no longer tell the difference between it and him.

The ice is as much a part of him as he is a part of it.

And as much as he was praying for something to change, he realizes now that he had grown comfortable in his pain, and he’s not prepared to face any new trials.

The ice screams another cry through him, and for once he can feel his heart beating in his throat, pounding up against the ice that exists there.  His prison vibrates, shifting, swaying, until he feels it break free, floating on its own, his womb carved out of the mother who bore it.

He is only glad that some of the ice has stayed around him, no matter what happens to him now.

He hates himself for that.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don't post in the next day or two, just be warned that I'll be taking a week hiatus until roughly the middle of next week. I'll be doing some travelling about Europe and won't have my computer with me. Just so no one thinks this has been abandoned...


	15. Rescue

Voices are murmuring, shouting around him.  So many people and machines bustling about, creating so much noise with all their life and activity.

“Steve? Steve! It’s gonna be alright, it’s alright now, we have you, it’ll be alright.  We’ll get you out of this, just hold on, alright?”

Peggy’s sobbing, hands on his arm, his chest, framing his face while her thumbs stroke across his cheeks.

 _Peggy_.  If he could cry, he would sob in relief at hearing her voice again.  He put that plane down expecting to die, expecting to never get a chance to live his life with this spectacular woman.

But—she’s here now, and now he can get a chance with her; get a chance to settle down, marry, maybe get a house together once the war’s over.

“Please, just look at me! Please! It’ll be alright! We can get you out of this, I just need you to look at me! Steve, please!”

He goes to open his eyes, to catch a glimpse of her beautiful face for the first time in so long, so see her gorgeous self for the first time since he pulled that stupid suicidal stunt. He regrets that act now. Howard could no doubt have figured out a way for Steve to safely land that plane.  But he was mourning then, and he’d just wanted to be with Bucky. (Though now he knows he may never join him, may never see the life after death).  But, he has Peggy.  She’s here, she’ll save him; even from himself.

He goes to open his eyes, but nothing happens. He can’t get his body to cooperate, no matter how hard he tries to force it.  It’s such a simple request, he knows it is, but this little action is beyond him entirely. 

Perhaps he’s dead, and he’s just haunting his body, unable to operate the corpse but aware of all that happens to it from now on.

“Steve!” she screams as she’s pulled away, “ _Steve!_   We can save you! Just open your eyes!”

He can’t!  He’s trying so hard, so hard to just do what she says so she can help him, but he _can’t.  He can’t!_

_“STEVE!”_

No...

_NO!!_

Take him!  Please!  Get him out of this Hell!  

_Peggy!!!_

.

.

.

Silence.  That’s all that remains.

He would sob if he could, his heart breaking open anew. 

He knows he failed her.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I warned in the last post, I'm going on a short trip for the next couple of days, so don't expect an update till at least the middle of next week.
> 
> Also, I apologize if Peggy seems un-British. I couldn't figure out how to make her British (since I don't study linguistics) without making her sound corny as hell. It was mainly all the uses of 'alright' from her. That doesn't really seem like a common British word (in that context), so if you have any suggestions for a replacement word, please just let me know.


	16. White Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!!
> 
> Sorry for the wait! Please enjoy!

There’s white everywhere, nearly arresting him in its intensity.  It’s so bright he feels blind, the purity of it all searing into his eyes.  The white burns, biting at his exposed skin as he walks through the formless space.  There are no blemishes to be seen anywhere, no contours or shadows or edges or anything else that could be used to define a space, just the white light that falls from the sky to solidify as the white ground that passes under his feet.  There’s not even a horizon in front of him like he knows there should be, just a curtain of white that turns to solid under him as he walks endlessly forward.

There is a purpose to where he’s going.  He has a destination.  

He doesn’t remember what it is.

That doesn’t matter.  All that matters is that he keeps walking, keeps trudging ahead through this nothingness.  Keeps pulling himself closer and closer to where he’s supposed to go.

It will be a long journey, he can tell.  He doesn’t know how far he’s come, how long he’s already been walking.  All he knows is that he has to keep going.  Just one foot in front of the other.  And the other, and the other, and the other.

Just another step further, just one more step closer to his finish line.

He’s tiring.  Feet getting heavy.  Movement stopping.  He’s too lethargic to care about failing to reach his goal, but still sad about not finding out what it was.

His body locks up, muscles tightening and leaving him to fall flat on his back.

His world bleeds black as he falls, his awareness of the pressure surrounding him returning as he comes to lie prone once more.  He’s awake now, he believes.  That white emptiness of his dream was unnatural; blank and lonely.  This blackness that makes up his home, that greets him and comforts him now, is much more familiar, filled so absolutely with the Ice.  His home is here where he is surrounded entirely.  His home is here in this dark, suffocating place where he may be forgotten, but he is not alone.

He thinks his dream had him outside, walking on the Ice.  He wishes to shudder at the wrongness of that thought; to walk on the Ice would assume that he is the more powerful, the more domineering of the two.  How laughable that thought is. 

The Ice is his master, and he belongs to it.

There is no other truth in the world.  That is the only certainty that exists.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

 


	17. Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the wait. I was adjusting to a new schedule this week (also: suddenly summer weather!) and so my muse decided to abandon me with the writing of new content, for both this and my other WIPs. 
> 
> This one's also a little different. Not sure how I feel about it.

He thinks it’s been darker ever since his icy prison shifted.  If that was even a real event.  It’s hard to tell sometimes.  His mind is becoming.  Fallible.  It goes strange places.  Cooks up strange things.  He sees scenarios that have been.  That should be.  That he hopes to God have never occurred.

Anyways. 

It’s hard to tell.  With the space beyond his eyelids being so dark.  But.  He thinks the black is blacker now.  Possibly.

Are his eyelids even closed?  He thinks they are.  But he can’t even strain those frozen muscles anymore.  So.  Who knows.

He remembers never seeing true black until the war.  Until the nights spent under the European sky.  With not even a fire for light out of fear for being spotted. 

He remembers the nights in Brooklyn always had a glow to them.  Always had the streetlamps on and burning in through the thin bedroom curtain.  Always had the sounds from the street wafting up through the cracks in the building and soothing him with the presence of others nearby. 

Now.  There is nothing. 

There is silence where shifting leaves or people’s voices should be.  Blackness where there should be a moon and stars. 

Even on the foggiest of nights there had been a hint of light somewhere behind the darkness.  Now.  The black is so deep he can feel the pressure of it. 

The black has substance here.  Here where there is no other attempt at life.  It creates its own presence here.  Comes into its own being.

Like the Ice, he supposes. 

Perhaps the Black is another child of It.  Another child of his Mother the Ice.

The Black must be the favored child.  With how much strength it has been given compared to himself.  Or perhaps the Black is just older—stronger with age—and overpowers him only because he is so young and weak compared to it. 

He is used to being weak.

He’s been weak his whole life.  Never been given the ability to truly prove himself.  Now will never be given a chance to try again.

(He thinks there might have been a time—a heartbeat, a breath, really—where he was strong and capable of the most impossible feats.  He doubts the reality of that idea, and yet can never remember how he came to be in the Ice without that miracle time of strength being a truth.

(He starts to doubt that there ever was a time before the Ice because of this—

The idea terrifies him.))

 

 


	18. Waste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SQUICK WARNING: This gets into some vivid imagery involving human scat and urine. Sorry. Don’t read this chapter if you’re not comfortable with this topic.

In the life that was Before, Steve had bodily functions that required him to go to the bathroom.  It was a regular occurrence, one he didn’t really think about, but one he still tended to multiple times a day.  He couldn’t say it was something that pleased him to do—it in fact was often an annoying interruption—but it was an action that often brought him a feeling of relief regardless.

He positively despised this bodily function, though, when he was laid in bed, too ill and weak to do more than soil himself where he lay, too delirious with fevers to do more than rely on others to clean him up. 

It is curious, then, that this function seems to have vanished in the wake of his residence in the Ice.  He hasn’t eaten since being engulfed by the Ice, but he’s decently sure there would be at least some remaining urine and solid waste in his body, and if he originally had functions like breathing still attempting to operate after he’d been frozen (until he’d been able to stifle that unfortunate desire), then his body should have probably tried to eject that waste at some point in his early imprisonment here. 

He might not have known even if it had happened.  He might have been unconscious when his body decided to make a mess of itself, just like it had so many times when he was confined to his bed previously.

If he’d wet himself, it probably just joined the Ice.  That’s a thought that seems almost sacrilegious, almost like he’d be besmirching Her purity.  But, at the same time, She’s so vast and encompassing, he doubts such a thing would even put a mark on Her.  His urine would be mostly water with some salt added, anyways, and not much besides a slight difference in color to call it out as a separate thing from the seawater that makes up the Ice.

His scat, though, would probably have smeared into the inside of his trousers, running itself all over his butt and thighs and lower back, squishing out through the weave of the cloth.  He doesn’t know if the special armor of his uniform would keep it all trapped inside, or whether it, too, would let the brown sludge pass through it and let his scat stain the Ice beneath him.  He hopes it hasn’t, as he doesn’t want to upset Her by leaving messes all over Her like a young pup that hasn’t yet been house-trained.

If he had any more space to move within Her grasp, he no doubt would have formed a rash on his backside from wallowing within his own waste.  He imagines that he can feel such a thing now, but rationalizes that it’s just the cold stinging him from the Ice’s touch against his skin.

He _can_ , however, smell the stench of his waste; the sharp tang of the briny urine against the deep musk of the cloying muddiness that makes up the scent of his weakness; the scent of the times where he’s too weak to stand under his own power, of times where he’s too bedridden too often to ever be capable of independence.  It’s a scent he hates with a passion, one that has defined all that his life will never amount to, and one that is so strong now despite the Ice that clogs his mouth and nose. 

There is no doubt in his mind that that putrid scent exists here, too.

 

 


	19. Hitler

He’s on the stage, sweating, stumbling through his lines.  Hitler walks up.  Steve punches him, like he’s been told he should.  Hitler goes down. 

He continues with his lines.  Hitler walks up again.  The glass jaw shatters under his fist this time, and Hitler goes down once more.

The lines.  The audience staring back at him, faces blank.  Their faces morphing, turning to the same hateful visage.  He wades through them, knocks each one down.  They’re advancing so fast.  He still needs to read his lines, the lines written on the backside of his shield.  He can’t read them though, they’re blurring with the motion of his punches as he tries to keep up with the number of Hitlers endlessly swarming him.

Hitler’s face is grinning at him now, the skull glowing red underneath it.  Steve punches him.  Knocks him down.  Punches the next.

He loses the shield somehow.  He can’t protect anymore.  He lost the lines along with it.  He still needs to say them though.  The words fumble out of his mouth, slurring now that he doesn’t have the shield to direct them.  The words are incomprehensible and they catch in his throat, thick and clogging.

Another Hitler.  Another punch.  Another body down.

His vision fills with just the one face.  It swells until that is all he can see, all he can focus on.  

He punches.  The face comes back.  He punches.  He punches.  He punches.  Again and again and again, the face comes back.  Hitler does not fall under Steve’s power.

He needs his shield to protect.  He needs the lines on the back to make him breath again.

Again and again, the face comes back.  Again and again.

That perfectly combed and parted hair.  That groomed square of a mustache.  That giant wedge of a nose.

Again and again he punches it, and yet again and again the face comes back.  It mocks him, makes him know that all his struggles are useless and all his efforts are forever wasted.  There is nothing but Hitler.  There is no version of this that Steve wins

The head comes back.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Futilely, Steve punches once more.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, concerns, ideas, or emotional outbursts? Feel free to leave any or all of the above in the comments below! Kudos are also welcome!


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